Home invasions suck ass.


Song: Got Ur Self a Gun by Nas
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On Thursday night, there was a home invasion in our neighborhood that resulted in one man being shot. According to The Denver Post:

Three masked men burst into the home in an apparent armed robbery, Jackson said. A scuffle broke out and the victim was shot.

He was taken to Denver Health Medical Center in serious but stable condition, Jackson said.

The three suspects fled on foot and remain at large.

Victims and witnesses are being uncooperative with investigators, Jackson said.

So. Walking distance from our house, three masked fuckers with guns burst into a house, shot a dude, took off, and haven’t been caught. That shit creeps me out like nothing else.

Rottie girl

She's on a chain here because if she weren't, she'd be killing your ass.

My usual course of action when something like this happens is as follows: First, I freak out. Why is nobody cooperating? It’s like when the Miami cops head over to the Pork n Beans projects after yet another murder happens there and, without fail, nobody saw anything, ever. It’s just 100 doors after 100 doors and “I didn’t see anything.” Then I gather all the information I can find, which isn’t much, because nobody but The Denver Post considered this story worthy of mention, because I guess home invasions and shootings in the ‘hood aren’t really sexy. Then I consider our home-security measures. We got a monitored security system after our house was burglarized. We also did several other things, which I’m not going to tell you about  because they’re super sophisticated and top secret. We also have a Rottweiler who could kill you with her bare paws and jaws of death in 16 seconds.

After these preliminary steps, I google map the home that was invaded (kind of creepy apartment-looking thing) and then try to convince myself that the people in the invaded home were high-level drug dealers who kept large amounts of cash on hand and that’s why the home was invaded and nobody will talk to the police. This line of thought is much more pleasant than imagining garden-variety dorks like us who are so traumatized by what happened they won’t talk. It can’t be random. There has to be a reason that house was chosen. Random is too scary. Random could be us next.

After thinking about this shit all day Friday, I came home from the gym to find what appeared to be a dish towel in front of our house. This creeped me out. Why is there a dish towel in front of our house? It has to be because some potential home invader was casing the joint, thought it would be a prime target for invading tonight, and left the towel as a sign to his cronies that this is where the action will be at 2 a.m. (I always make up terrible stories when I see random shit in anyone’s yard).

I determine that this towel must be eliminated no matter what. It clearly is a harbinger of evil. I don’t like to touch random things I find in our yard (usually empty Cheetos bags), so I try to pick the towel up with my foot. This is unsuccessful (I’m wearing running shoes and carrying 700 bags at the time). I give up and pick up the towel with my left index finger and thumb, daintily, I guess, and throw it over the gate on the side of the house. It lands in the snow and I imagine that, because it’s mostly white, it will not be visible from the street. Crisis averted. I hope.

I victoriously enter the house, knowing that I have saved my little family from chaos and destruction, only to hear Ben say, “Why did you throw that over there?” (It’s not really convenient to get over there because we have a locked gate on one end and elaborate dog-restraining obstacles on the other, and, um, we all know that Ben will be the one to go over there and pick up the towel because I’m kind of really bad at doing these things.) Oh, um. I decided it was evil and had to get it out of the yard but didn’t want to touch it or bring it into the house because I’m a superball made of rubber, anxiety, and paranoia, bouncing off every surface in the general area until I build up enough energy to explode from sheer unreasonableness? Maybe?

Don’t let my paranoia fool you, though, because the story gets even creepier. Apparently the dish towel was on our weird little trellis near the front door when Ben got home and he took it off and left it in front of the house. He wondered if it had been there for a while, blown by the wind and then covered by snow until he just noticed it that night. This was not likely. The trellis had no snow on it at all, and it hadn’t really been that windy, and in any event, wind tends to blow shit to the other side of our street where it all gets stuck along the fence and brings a certain wonderful character to our neighborhood. So that meant someone opened our front gate, entered our yard, and hung a dish towel on our trellis yesterday, the day after there was a home invasion in our neighborhood where somebody got shot and nobody is talking to the police. Awesome.

Did I mention that our Rottweiler has a gun?